Gripping Vittore’s hand, Tomaso looked cautiously up and down the road.

Crouching back in among the wayside trees, they commanded unseen a view of any who might come or go; and though the days faded fast, it was still light enough to see many paces off.

‘No soldiery about tonight,’ whispered Tomaso; ‘they have ridden farther afield. We will go back, Vittore.’

They had turned to retrace their steps when Vittore clutched his cousin’s hand yet tighter, and suppressed an exclamation.

‘Look!’ he whispered, ‘a horseman coming toward Milan.’

Tomaso looked round nervously, and saw a single rider approaching swiftly, but casting searching glances around.

As the boys watched, mistrustfully waiting, still in hiding, to see him safely pass, to their dismay he slackened pace, and finally drew rein altogether and looked eagerly in their direction.

‘Not a movement,’ breathed Tomaso, and Vittore crouched in silent fright.

None the less, motionless as they thought themselves, some slight movement betrayed them, for the rider dismounted, advanced toward their hiding-place, and softly spoke.

‘Who is there? I am a friend,’ he said.

‘He is a Florentine,’ whispered Vittore joyfully; but Tomaso leaned against the tree in silence, and even through the gathering dusk, as the younger boy looked up, he saw that he was pale and trembling.

‘Canst thou direct me?’ said the stranger. ‘I can pay thee for thy services.’

‘Answer him, Tomaso,’ Vittore whispered eagerly; ‘he is a Florentine, he will not hurt us.’

Tomaso made a step forward. ‘It is someone we know,’ he said chokingly, ‘or my brain is playing me strange tricks.’

As he spoke, he put aside the branches that hid them, and stepped forward. The stranger had guessed their hiding-place unerringly; he stood close by, his horse’s bridle across his arm. He was a slight, roughly-dressed, but well-formed man of middle age, light in colour and of strong yet delicate features.

‘Thou needst not fear me,’ he began with a smile; then, as the two figures drew nearer, he paused, and in his turn grew pale and trembled.

Tomaso, tossing his hair back from his face, with parted lips, stepped close, followed by Vittore.

‘Father! Thou dost not know me!’

‘Son! Tomaso!’ cried the traveller. He seized him by the shoulders with trembling hands, and scanned eagerly his face.

‘Tomaso!’ and his voice was shrill with feeling. ‘Tomaso at last

They had not met for many months and years — two at least; the father absent at a distant court, serving where chance had led him, for fame and fortune; the son, growing from boyhood into man in distant Florence.

Since Verona fell, Tomaso had mourned his father as dead, and he, in his turn, had wandered far, searching for the pair who had started out to find him.

With stifled sobs of joy, Tomaso clung about his father’s neck, and was clasped to him in frenzied pleasure.

‘They said thou wert dead, Father!’ broke out the youth at last. ‘I never thought to see thy face again.’

‘I thought the same of thee, my son,’ returned Ligozzi tenderly. ‘I have been searching for traces of thee long and wearily. I thought thou must have perished on thy long journey, having found out Verona had fallen. But is this Vittore?’ He drew to him paternally the boy who, so far, had watched the scene with wide-eyed curiosity.

‘And now, what art thou doing — and where staying?’

As if he feared to lose him, Tomaso held his father tightly by the sleeve, over which the bridle had been slipped, and Vittore clinging to the other hand, they drew him forward between them to the place from which they had come.

‘I am glad thou art not dead,’ said Vittore; Tomaso grieved for thee sorely, and so did I.’

Tomaso laughed happily. ‘Grieve! Aye, did we! But now we can rejoice.’

‘But why this haste?’ Ligozzi asked, ‘where dost thou hurry me?’

‘Back, Father, whence we came, for I was left in trust. It is a path thy horse can follow, and I will tell thee what has happened as we go.’

Ligozzi followed without further question, too full of joy for speech, and taking so much pleasure in that it was his son who spoke as for the moment not to heed too keenly what he said.

But when Tomaso, beginning, boy-fashion, with the last, and not the first, came to mention of the Visconti’s blow, Ligozzi roused to fury.

‘Methought I saw a scar across thy face,’ he said, ‘yet in this light I could not see too well. It is only one more wrong to set against the Visconti’s name, one deed the more to be avenged.’

Tomaso took the clenched hand and covered it with kisses.

‘I can forgive him now,’ he said, ‘since thou wert not slain when Verona fell.’

”Twas no fault of the Visconti’s that any living soul escaped,’ returned his father. ‘Still, go on with thy tale, Tomaso; who is this Francisco, that thou nam’st so oft?’

Tomaso, eager and suddenly light of heart, told all he knew, and ere his recital ended they had reached the open, and found everything as they had left it, the horses safe, nothing seemingly disturbed.

‘Francisco will be pleased at a helper such as thou, Father,’ said Tomaso proudly; ‘thou wilt be of more service in his venture than the German Count.’

‘And when this Francisco returns presently, the plan is that we set forth at once for Ferrara?’ asked Ligozzi.

‘And meanwhile rest, Father, and I will bring thee food. We have already eaten.’

‘I, too, my son,’ answered Ligozzi; but he seated himself on one of the rough wooden stools and watched Tomaso affectionately, as he brought the poor horn lantern from the wall. He lit and set it on the table, where it cast a straggling and wretched light.

‘Francisco is surely overlong,’ he said; ‘suppose the soldiers think to search again on their way home from some outlying district?’

‘Then there will be another fight,’ said Vittore, ‘but Francisco will get the best of it.’

Ligozzi laughed.

‘I owe this Francisco much,’ he said; ‘he must be a brave man, and his care saved you both. From Verona, didst thou say?’

‘From Verona, Father. He said he knew thee, thy name; he is di Coldra; he knew thee, he has said, and the della Scala also!’

At della Scala’s name Ligozzi’s eyes filled with tears, and his voice trembled when he spoke.

‘I at least knew della Scala well,’ he said, ‘and loved him too.’ He paused. ‘Next to thee, Tomaso,’ he continued sadly, ‘his memory has filled my heart during these weary weeks. I hoped, hope against hope, he might have escaped even as I did, but there comes no sign he lives.’

‘Then thou didst not see him perish?’ asked Tomaso softly.

‘On that fearful night on which Verona fell,’ answered Ligozzi, ‘della Scala himself defended the gates, fighting like a lion. But he was betrayed, Tomaso, by a dastard in his pay, and the Visconti’s soldiers poured in through the breach, secretly, and seized the palace, the Duke unwitting till it was too late and the palace flaming. I had to carry him the news; may I never have to do the like again. The palace was a sheet of fire, the Duchess was within, and the Visconti’s soldiers swarming. The Prince rushed like a madman through the streets, a little group of us behind him. Too late! The Duchess Was too great a prize, the miscreants had lost no time, and she was gone. A tale had reached the Duke while he still struck about him frantically that Gian Visconti himself had led the onset, and was still within the precincts with his prisoner. But it was a trap, Tomaso, set by a traitor. Della Scala, rushing where the pikeman pointed, was led beneath a burning stairway. It crashed in. I was behind the Duke; a beam struck me down, I thought among the dead, but some friars found me and brought me back to life; of della Scala they knew nothing.’ He paused, and hid his eyes a moment in his hands.

‘Thou didst care greatly?’ said Tomaso, after a painful silence.

‘He was a noble prince,’ replied his father. ‘I owe him everything; he made a friend of me, and I ever found him brave and generous, as strong as gentle, and most honourable — and he loved the Duchess, aye, he loved her. The Duchess still lives, a prisoner in Milan, but della Scala —’

He sighed deeply, and rose as if to put from him the memory of the tragedy.

‘But to return to thy deliverer,’ he said, ‘one Francisco di Coldra, thou say’st; he claims I know him. What manner of a man is he?’

As he spoke ............